


hope chest

by am_fae



Category: Ogniem i Mieczem | With Fire and Sword (1999), Trylogia | The Trilogy - Henryk Sienkiewicz
Genre: Alternate Universe - All Female, Canon Era, F/F, Genderswap, Historical Inaccuracy, Pining, Same-Sex Marriage, Useless Lesbians, i read too much philippa gregory at a formative age, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 23:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17212703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_fae/pseuds/am_fae
Summary: Joanna Skrzetuska sews and thinks about her love.





	hope chest

**Author's Note:**

> A little drabble set in the ladies!AU tuulikki/LucyLovecraft and I have been talking about, for the Yuletide prompt "sewing"!
> 
> tuulikki's Helena/Julija Bohun fic Stars   
>  my tumblr tag for this AU 

Joanna Skrzetuska was well at ease in the princess’ chambers, among her highness’ ladies in waiting, but while it was rare to see her in Łubnie and not away on one task or another in the magnate’s service, it was rarer still to see her sewing. When the women wove tapestries or embroidered altarcloths, Skrzetuska would often lend a hand to the work – her stitches were flawless when the princess commanded them – but more often than not she read, or sang with a voice that was honest and pleasant to the ear, if mediocre, and plucked at an instrument to entertain the others, or sharpened weaponry, or flirted with Anusia Borzobohata. But things had been different these past months. The princess’ prized envoy and favored sleeping companion was more and more often lost in thought.

She was in love.

“Is that for your country girl?” Anusia said, leaning on the back of the chair where Joanna sat sewing by the fire and propping her chin on her elbows. Joanna didn’t look up.

She grinned, though. “And what’s it to you?”

“Oh! Nothing, of course. But it is for her?”

“It is.”

“Will you sew all her shirts when you’re married, like that Spanish queen?” Anusia’s tone was teasing – Skrzetuska was clearly senior in that match, by wealth and connections far more than a few years. A woman in the service of so great a magnate would not have either the time or the obligation to perform such gestures of wifely devotion for her bride.

“If she’ll let me, I will.”

                                      

The delicate linen slid easily through Joanna’s hands, the warm flush of her palms showing through beneath the white fabric. As they so often did, her thoughts easily drifted to her love: she could see Helena there before her, as if she were truly standing across from her at the hearth and not so many cold, long miles away. How might Helena look in this chemise, the snowy cloth making the sun stand out in her skin? Joanna could picture the work in her hands falling softly over Kurcewiczówna’s tall, slender form, clinging to the beautiful curves of breast and hip – and it must be the finest work, if it were to grace Helena’s body. Three such embroidered chemises already lay carefully folded in a chest under Joanna’s narrow bed in her quarters at Łubnie. Joanna Skrzetuska had no need or care for a trousseau: the linen was meant for her betrothed, sacredly set aside as a wedding present.

_Oh, Halszka, where are you now?_

In the crackling flames, Joanna imagined Helena at Rozłogi’s rough-hewn table, quiet while her cousins laughed. The Cossack woman was no doubt in some corner, watching with those haggard-wolf eyes. (The Pereyeslav regiment wintered in Czehryń: too close for Joanna’s comfort.)

Helena might dare a smile, quick and playful or bitter, dull-edged; always fleeting in her aunt’s presence. But how she would shine there in the firelight! Joanna had seen pictures of classical goddesses in books, draped about in bedsheets, all easy posture and lustrous dark hair. The proud, living flame in Helena’s eyes had left her transported; the girl’s marten-skin hood had been a crown.  “Juno Regina,” the envoy had murmured. _Queen. “_ Juno Lucina.” _Bringer of light._

Joanna bent to her task as she stitched the edge of one of the leaves in the collar’s design, white thread against the white fabric. In the careful, mindless work, her sometimes-crushing anxieties – that painful longing to be where Helena was, to keep her safe – began to slip away once more, leaving Joanna sustained by memory and hope.

She had visited Helena often before and since their engagement, enough to know her flustered blushes and the particular shade of her lips when they’d been kissed. Joanna knew indeed far more than that. In her mind’s eye, she saw her love jumping into bed and pulling the furs over both of them, with the comfort of the chemise Joanna’d sewn against her skin like a caress.

Helena had been so radiantly happy the first time when, sitting together on Joanna’s bedspread in the spare rooms of Rozłogi, their kisses turned into something more. She’d reached blindly for Joanna’s waist and then her breast with an awkward boldness that startled and delighted her partner. Some barrier in Helena seemed to give way, leaving her aglow and dizzy with relief as she tentatively explored the shape of Joanna’s body, and Joanna sighed and melted under the touch but was far too well-versed in chivalry to allow herself to take without giving in return, especially with the woman to whom she’d pledged her life and service. When Helena’d touched her with such intent again, her determined hands were shaky and her dark eyes hazy with pleasure and she had thanked her and –

Joanna could have wept with joy.

She stared at the flickering flames of the hearth, needle and thread going still.

_Could she be thinking of me even now?_

A delicate hand rested on Joanna’s shoulder, and she whirled round, hastily rising to her feet.

The woman before her had an air of regal authority which belied her slight stature. The deep burgundy velvet of her robe swept from shoulder to floor along the feline contours of her body, revealing cutaway sleeves and skirts of jewel-toned silk beneath its dark fur lining. Though the magnate had a certain preference for her female staff in the corseted Western style, _alamod,_ she herself always wore the Polish.

Opals and rubies gleamed on her white hands, slim fingers beringed; her black hair was pinned up with gold. Fine lines showed around the magnate’s kohl-rimmed eyes: young as she was in her thirty-sixth year, she had seen more battles and disputes than most lords twice her age.

_Midnight eyes, keen and sharp as an eagle’s._

“Exquisite work, my Joanna.”

Wiśniowiecka’s low murmur set Joanna’s heart racing. She sank into a low curtsey, but found it impossible to tear her eyes from that onyx gaze for more than an instant. “Thank you, my princess.”

The thin lips curved upwards, just a little. “Who is it for?”

“My – my betrothed, Your Highness.” Cursing herself, Joanna knew she must be blushing. _Stop! There’s no dishonor in admitting it. We’re to be wed, and the princess herself blessed the match._

“How sweet.”

“Thank you, your Highne –”

Wiśniowiecka silenced her with a look, and Joanna swallowed, bitter self-recrimination roiling in her stomach. Her heart was pounding so that she was sure the princess could hear it: whether anticipating punishment or ardor (were the two that different, when Wiśniowiecka’s eyes looked like that – hard, and blank?) who could say.

The princess stroked Joanna’s shoulder, and the girl shivered at the slight press of her fingertips through the thin fabric, rose-colored lips parting. In a moment the hand was gone, as if she’d merely imagined the touch.

“Take care these trifles don’t distract you from your duties, Skrzetuska.”

Joanna bowed her head, staring at the hem of the princess’ dress. A familiar pain clutched at her heart.

 _Skrzetuska,_ not Joanna – a warning sign, one of so many she had learned to read. It was strange; at times she thought she knew the princess Wiśniowiecka better than she knew herself. Other times she felt she didn’t know her patroness at all.

Joanna’s callused hands clenched on the bunched linen of Helena’s chemise, instinctively holding tight. Joanna fought to command them, carefully unfolding each finger while Wiśniowiecka observed in silence.

“Of course, Your Highness.” _My princess_ was for tenderer moments, when Joanna had done nothing wrong.

Wiśniowiecka smiled. “I know you will.”


End file.
